


Three Weeks Apart

by sorcererofsupremepizza



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Sherlock (TV), only a brief mention
Genre: Confusion, M/M, Miscommunication, Some angst, but fluff, seriously that's the only way to describe it, they are idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 16:45:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorcererofsupremepizza/pseuds/sorcererofsupremepizza
Summary: Mycroft has realized he loves Lestrade. Lestrade has realized he loves Mycroft. They have to tell each other how they feel, immediately. Two-parter."Either way, he knew one thing for certain: absence definitely made the heart grow fonder."





	Three Weeks Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired partially (mostly) by real events. You want the real story, just message me. 
> 
> As I don't have the conclusion on my own yet, you guys don't get it yet either. Sorry, sometimes I just feel like being a jerk to my readers and giving strong cliffhangers. >:)
> 
> Shoutout to Paradoxe1914 (aka weneedtotalkaboutsherlock.tumblr.com on tumblr) You're the best, and you help me through the epic problems that eventually become my inspiration.

_ Tonight’s the night. It feels right. I am going to do it. I have been thinking about telling him for a month now. It isn’t that hard. Just three words. You can do it, Greg.  _

 

The Detective Inspector scratched his head, ruffling his salt and pepper gray hair. He sighed. It was that hard. He was lying to himself. Especially where Mycroft Holmes was concerned. 

 

Greg knew what to expect as a level of difficulty when he first started pursuing the British Government, but the reality had even him at a loss. He’d had his fair share of ridiculous relationships, some he’d rather not care to ever think about again -- ugh, Larry from college -- what the fuck was he thinking when he decided to date such a clingy asshole? 

 

Greg shook the thought away. He had the entire thing planned out. It might not have looked it to anyone who saw his flat or his way of life otherwise, but when it came to being a romantic, Greg liked to plan everything to the letter. Sometimes. It just depended on the moment. Spontaneity came when it was necessary. Otherwise, he liked to have a plan. 

 

“Right, Greg,” he began coaching himself. He scooped up his wallet and keys from his coffee table, stooping down by the mirror in the hallway to ensure he looked okay for the big confession. “Just drive to his house. Wait in his driveway. Once he’s there, you can just tell him it’s a pleasant surprise and then when he sees through that bullshit lie, you can snog him senseless and tell him how you really feel.” 

 

He might have been able to figure out what he wanted to do, but actually executing such a plan was another dimension of reality entirely. 

 

He locked the door of his flat behind him, tossing his keys in the air once before pocketing them and getting into his cruiser, driving in the direction of Mycroft’s grand mansion. 

 

* * *

 

Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, sat in his office at his ornate desk, rubbing his temples as he attempted to read a very dense report regarding relations with the current United States representatives. He shook his head, a hand reaching out for his crystal glass of water. He realized he would need something much stronger to get through this day, though. 

 

His slender fingers closed around it and he finally shoved his chair back from his desk with a sigh. He slammed the glass back down with another huff.

 

“Sod this.” He said, getting to his feet. He buttoned his suit jacket as he did, traipsing over to the window. A hand slipped into his pocket, finding the note he had composed just hours ago during his lunch break. 

 

His eyes dashed through the lines. He had written it, so it was much more comprehensible than the clusterfuck that currently was taking up desk space nearby. 

 

It was the fourth draft of his love confession for his significant other. They had been dating nearly three months, and Mycroft had found that the DI was always on his mind. He always put that man’s happiness first, worried about him… constantly, and was always happy when they saw each other. Of course, that hadn’t happened for a while due to work, but Lestrade was just as busy as he was. So neither of them seemed to mind too much that they hadn’t seen each other for three weeks. 

 

The truth of it all: Mycroft ached to see his Gregory. More than anything at this point. Of course, part of the reason that he couldn’t read that report was because it was written by illiterate morons from the States, but the majority was all Mycroft; he was much too distracted by the emotions bursting from him. So much so that he thought he might tear apart at the seams if he didn’t tell someone how he felt as soon as he could. 

 

The British Government had never been good with words. Or emotions. Or anything remotely close to being human. That wasn’t to say that he was terrible at pretending to be one; society dictated things a certain way. And Mycroft was a genius. 

 

Well, at most things. This was not one of them.

 

His eyes scanned the small piece of paper, lingering on the three finals words and his elaborate signature at the bottom of the page. Finally, he crumpled the page up into a tiny ball and threw it in the nearby wastebasket. The words were all  _ wrong _ . Nothing he wrote ever seemed to really sum up how he felt. He could go on for days.

 

He wanted to do the toss the report too, but he couldn’t. However, he could ignore it for the time being. He had other ideas. And work wasn’t one of them. 

 

Mycroft picked up his coat off the hook by the door, turned the lights off in his office, and closed the door. He raised a finger, scolding himself. He had been so distracted by his racing thoughts that he had forgotten something. 

 

He quickly strolled back into his office, grabbed his umbrella, and disappeared out of it again. He twirled it as he walked, but it wasn’t his usual gesture. His movements were frantic, jittery. Almost rambling. Instead of the constant fluidity of his usual walk-and-twirl style, he was a complete and total disaster. Inside and out. Finally, he sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair with his free hand; the umbrella hanging off his elbow as his driver picked him up. 

 

“Gregory’s house.” He directed. The driver nodded to him and took off in that direction. 

 

The whole way there, Mycroft’s heart was pounding. His mind was racing through what had made him want to say these things in the first place. 

 

* * *

 

It had just happened the night prior. He had gotten off early, but Lestrade was gallivanting through the battlefield with his brother trying to catch a murderer. Mycroft had already solved the case (so he might have hacked the case files to solve the puzzle; lately he’d just been dealing with boring Americans and reports anyway. Nothing important that couldn’t wait), but he didn’t want to ruin it for them. So he had settled on the sofa in his entertainment room and started flipping through  _ Netflix _ . 

 

Turns out Greg had stayed logged in the last time he was there. Mycroft didn’t mind. He settled on one program that Greg had been watching when he had been over the last time and Mycroft had had to ditch date night because of a potential terror alert. 

 

Sometimes he really hated being the British Government. But someone had to do it. 

 

He had decided to watch  _ Brooklyn Nine-Nine _ . Apparently it was one of Greg’s favorite shows -- about a police precinct. Not surprising, Mycroft thought. He began watching a random episode, growing slightly bored but watching it because it reminded him of Gregory. 

 

Mycroft had just happened to select the exact episode where the main characters Jake and Amy confess their love for one another for the first time. He shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him as he secretly enjoyed such cheesy romances. And since the Iceman was feeling rather lonely, he began talking to himself, as he did commonly while he was working. 

 

“Well, it appears that this couple is just as deeply in love with each other as I currently find myself with Gregory.” He said quietly. At the time, there had been no impact, no heavy ramifications to the thought. And he went on watching the show. In fact, he’d ended up staying awake for three more episodes. After that, he retired to his bed once he had changed into pyjamas. 

 

He crawled into the freshly-laundered sheets and lay there, checking his phone anxiously for a message from his significant other. Unfortunately, there wasn’t one. So he tried calling. He didn’t get an answer. Instead, his mind began to wander. And as it did, Mycroft found it difficult to sleep. His thoughts began racing for no reason whatsoever. It was unsurprising that he was stressed -- work did that to him all the time. But not like this. He grew annoyed of the sensation and got out of bed, finding some medication that would help him sleep. He popped two of them in his mouth and clambered back into bed, finally dozing. 

 

Mycroft watched as his driver turned down Gregory’s street. His palms became rather sweaty and his heart started pounding even harder. What was he doing? He tried to recollect himself, focusing on what brought him there in the first place. 

 

That morning at work, Mycroft had made the connection between the borderline anxiety attack and his feelings for Gregory Lestrade. It was the actual vocalization of the L-word that had scared him. He had never actually said that to another person and meant it. Goodness, why were these affairs so bloody difficult? If this emotion was the true essence of the human condition, then why on earth did he have to be a part of it?

 

Throughout the day, the confirmation of his feelings about Greg kept running through his mind. He now wanted nothing more than to tell the man how he felt, and he wasn’t sure he could relax until that happened. But with that confirmation of his feelings came immense doubt: as in, what if Greg didn’t reciprocate the sentiment? What would Mycroft do if Greg just said “thanks” and never exchanged another word out of pure awkwardness?

 

Mycroft tried to divert his thoughts before they traveled down that path, but it was difficult when he had spent so much time alone. Either way, he knew one thing for certain: absence  _ definitely _ made the heart grow fonder. He couldn’t stand it anymore. It was driving him mad. How on earth had Sherlock dealt with pining for Watson for  _ years _ ? Mycroft couldn’t even do it for a day.

 

“Sir, we’re here.” His driver said. Mycroft snapped out of his reverie and looked up at the steadily deteriorating building. 

 

“Yes, it appears we are. Thank you, but you don’t need to wait.” Mycroft said, preparing to get out of the vehicle. 

 

“Yes sir. Just call if you require my services.”

 

Mycroft nodded and closed the door, moving to sit down on the porch. He would wait for Lestrade to come home. He would pleasantly surprise him, give him a nice, long, deeply needed kiss, and then finally tell him, vocally, that he truly felt things in that way. 

 

He hoped that he would come soon. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait it out before he burst with the emotions. 

 

* * *

 

Greg pulled into Mycroft’s driveway, seeing the darkened house and smiling. Mycroft wasn’t home. That was good for once, considering it would have ruined the surprise. Greg fixed his hair using the rear view mirror, straightened his navy blue tie, and stepped out of the car. He withdrew his phone from his pocket, seeing a missed call from Mycroft. He furrowed his brow, debating on whether or not to call back. 

 

He couldn’t call back. Mycroft was a Holmes and he knew that he could probably deduce exactly what was going on if he called him. So that was out of the question. Instead he just pocketed the phone once again and sat down on the step, not so calmly waiting for Mycroft to get home so he could tell him just how he felt. His hands kept clasping and unclasping the fabric of his trousers and he made himself stop. It was an equivalent of pacing, and Greg knew if he started that he would pace right back to his car because he was terrified that Mycroft didn’t feel the same way about him. 

 

When in the hell would Mycroft just get his ass home? Greg was absolutely bursting at this point.

 

He sat there for two hours. Unbeknownst to him, Mycroft was doing the exact. Same. Thing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. As soon as I know how I want this to end, I'll give you the ending. ;)


End file.
